Bespoke
by msk1024
Summary: The saying goes that clothes maketh the man. Do his clothes maketh Ichabod Crane?
1. Chapter 1

Bespoke

Summary: The saying goes that clothes maketh the man. Do his clothes maketh Ichabod Crane?

Part 1

232 years ago, Ichabod Crane had last mended the shirt he now held in his hands. He bent over the cloth, the needle slipping through the fabric like quicksilver. It was much thinner and shinier than the one he'd used so many years ago. He remembered the small rolled up sewing kit Katrina had given him when he went off to fight, a "housewife," the soldiers called them.

He sat, cross-legged by the fire, an Indian blanket covering his bare shoulders. How very like the last time. The sound of footsteps on the porch caught his attention and he lifted his gaze to spot Abbie Mills passing by the window.

"Crane," she called out.

"Come in," he replied. "The door is not locked." He felt a chill as the November wind followed her into the room.

"You never cease to amaze, Crane," Abbie said. "In addition to all your other talents, you can sew."

"In my day, Miss Mills, a soldier had to cook his food and wash his clothes as well as mend them. What brings you out here, bearing gifts?" he asked, nodding at the brown paper bag in her hand. With the last stitch done, he knotted the thread and expertly snapped it off.

"I want to take a look at those scratches, and I pretty much emptied Corbin's first-aid kit patching you up. I still think you should have gone to the hospital."

"Both in my time and yours, hospitals are best avoided."

He put the shirt aside and prepared to rise, but Abbie said, "Don't get up." She dropped the bag by his knee and retrieved the first-aid kit from the shelf it rested on. After washing her hands at the sink, she returned to the hearth.

"Those were some pretty deep scratches. A couple of them may have needed sutures. How do they feel?" Kneeling next to Crane, she lifted the blanket off his shoulders.

"Maddeningly itchy."

"You haven't been scratching them, have you?"

"After your stern and repeated admonitions not to? Of course not." At her raised eyebrow, he amended, "well, not very much."

Abbie peeled back the medical tape and gauze on his shoulder. "Sorry," she said, at his sharp breath when the gauze stuck. Her hands moved to his ribs as she removed the bandage there as well. "They look pretty good, as far as I can tell. The skin isn't red and they're healing up."

"An unpleasant visit to the hospital rendered unnecessary. Thank you for taking care of me."

She emptied the bag between them and set about re-bandaging the scratches. "You're putting a lot of confidence in my couple of first aid courses," she said as she finished taping fresh gauze over the wounds. "Okay, that should hold you for a while." Abbie sat back and stretched her legs out. Reaching over, she picked up his shirt and held it up to inspect it.

"The bloodstains came out," she said.

"Thanks to you and your...what did you call it?"

"Enzyme soak. It's the only way to get bloodstains out. Hey, you're pretty good with the needle, Crane. But really, this shirt is crying out to be put to rest. Anyone else would have demoted it to rag status and used it to polish the furniture."

"Things were not so disposable in my day," he said. "The shirt is fine." As if to prove his point, he stood and pulled the shirt on, trying to hide a wince as as the scratches stung. Looking down, he tied up the laces.

"We could get you some new clothes, Crane."

He looked down at his hands. His voice was soft when he spoke.

"Miss Mills, since my awakening, these clothes were all that tied me to the only life I've ever known. Every single thing I had ever owned, ever held as precious is gone. Quite literally, all I have are the clothes I stand up in."

"You're right. I'm sorry, Crane."

"I'm not unrealistic. I know there will come a time when I need to acquire new clothing. Certainly, if our work continues to be as...strenuous as it has been."

"This line of work is pretty rough on the wardrobe," she said with a smile. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

In the days after her visit to the cabin, Abbie Mills found herself returning

over and over to that conversation. To Crane, his clothes were the only link to the life he had known. But every time Abbie saw that dusty coat, or his raggedy shirt, she couldn't help but think that they symbolized all that he'd lost, the pain he had endured.

And the pain just kept on coming. It wasn't enough that he was in a fight to save mankind. It wasn't enough that he was an 18th century man stranded in a confusing 21st century world. It wasn't enough that everyone he'd ever cared for was dead or beyond his reach. No. Now he had the torment of wondering about a child he'd fathered, but never known, who was long dead.

Crane's anxiety was manifesting in irritability that left her trying to decide between hugging him or punching him. And punching him was the current front runner.

Abbie felt as if they were in a holding pattern. Every day, she woke with the feeling that something was coming, the next step, the next clue, maybe something terrible. That feeling dogged her until night when she fell into a restless sleep.

She remembered walking home from school with Jenny when they were children. Some days she would have this feeling of foreboding, growing stronger with every step. She'd grip Jenny's hand so hard when they crossed the street that the girl would yelp and pull her hand away.

They'd climb the stairs and the air would feel like it was being sucked away from her. She'd reach into her undershirt and pull out the shoelace tied around her neck, bearing the house key and unlock the door. The house would be silent. The question would always be why? Was their mother asleep in the middle of the day, zoned out on her meds? Or had she wandered off somewhere, walked away? The last possibility was one that Abbie could never allow herself to imagine, let alone voice, but it was always present under the surface.

Now, each day felt like that-like something was going to happen. They worked whatever cases came their way, each had the potential to be the doorway to evil, but so far, they'd all proven ordinary.

One evening they were called to a break in at "Alchemy," a new age shop in the thought, finally, maybe this was it.

"And exactly what is sold in a "new age" shop?" Crane asked, as they left the station. "Has this generation found a way to make age into a commercial commodity as you have with water?"

"You'd be out of business in a minute trying to sell age. Now, youth-that would be a money maker," she said as they climbed into the car. "Actually, they sell tarot cards and crystals and anything spooky. Right up our alley."

Alchemy was located in a quaint, historic part of town-gift shops, art galleries and restaurants. Three weeks before Christmas, the store fronts were adorned with white twinkle lights and greenery. The shops were closed, though most of the restaurants were still serving patrons.

They were not the first to arrive; a couple of crime scene techs and an officer inside the store. The glass panel in the front door was shattered, the "closed" sign dangling in the center of the ragged shards. Broken glass glinted on the sidewalk.

Another officer stood talking to a woman dressed in a flowing black skirt and lace blouse. They watched as he opened the door to admit the woman. "Mind the glass, Ma'am," he said as she crunched over the doorway.

"Danny," she greeted the officer. "Haven't seen you in a long time."

"Hi Lieutenant Mills. Had shoulder surgery. I've been on disability since August." He cast a puzzled glance in Crane's direction.

"This is my partner, Ichabod Crane. He's been consulting with the sheriff's office. Crane, Danny Schneider."

"Wow, that is a great getup-it's so authentic. What period? 1770s? 1780s?"

Schneider fingered the wool on Crane's coat, inspecting the buttons. "How much did it cost you?"

In all the interactions she'd witnessed, this may have been the first time Crane seemed flummoxed. "I beg your pardon?" he finally croaked out."In my day, one didn't ask such inappropriate questions."

"Sorry. I know some re-enactors are protective of their gear. I didn't mean to offend. It's just my guy is crazy expensive, and I don't think he can top what you have there."

Crane was obviously puzzled, but explaining Revolutionary War re-enactors was more than Abbie manage right now. She put a reassuring hand on his arm, she hoped signaling that she would bring him up to speed later. "No offense taken. Right Crane?"

"None at all," Crane said with a slight bow. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a look around the shop."

"Trust me to put my foot in my mouth," Schneider said Crane had left.

"Don't worry about it." An idea began to coalesce in her mind. "So, you're into re-enacting?"

"Yeah," he said. "Started out doing crowd control and got to talking to the re-enactors. Before you know it, I'm wearing a wig."

"Hey Danny, you mentioned someone who makes period clothing. Would you be

able to give me his name?"

"Sure, Lieutenant." Schneider pulled out his notepad and began to scribble. "He's Neil Jenkins, over in Westport. You think your partner wants to switch?"

"Maybe," she said with a smile. "I don't think his tailor is available anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

"Well, the shirt is loose with full sleeves. It's open at the throat and ties all the way down the front."

Abbie sat with Neil Jenkins at a battered wooden work table and watched as he

sketched a few lines on a pad. Crane's shirt was beginning to take shape under his pencil. Neil had told her he liked to get a verbal description to compare with the photographs.

"Do the sleeves have a cuff or are they wide at the bottom? They're rolled

in all your photos."

"He always has them rolled up. I think I've seen them down only a few times." Abbie closed her eyes and tried to remember. "The sleeves gather into a cuff. It's about an inch wide."

Neil picked up his tablet, and with a flick of his fingers, enlarged the

photograph. In it, Crane was gesturing at something, a smile playing at his lips. "What an extraordinary-looking person."

"He is extrordinary," she agreed. Oh Neil, she thought, you have no idea.

"Is that shade of green accurate?" Neil asked. "It can be hard to tell in pictures."

"It's pretty close. It's a soft, true green."

Getting the photos hadn't been easy. While Crane was barely aware of photography in general and cell-phone cameras in particular, it had still been tricky to get photos of the front and back of the shirt and breeches without the flash attracting his attention. Indoor lighting would engage the flash, and Crane kept his coat on outdoors. But one unseasonably warm day, he left the coat in the car as they went about their business in town.

They'd gone back to Alchemy to meet with Belladona Spinelli and bring her

up to speed on her case. The night of the break in, Crane had pointed out

that the glass from the door had fallen on the sidewalk, indicating that

whoever broke the glass had done so from inside the store. Nothing had been

stolen, but merchandise had been knocked from the shelves, several items

damaged.

Further investigation turned up a disgruntled employee that Ms. Spinelli

had fired for erratic behavior. In other words...ordinary. No matter

how much eye of newt or toe of frog Alchemy sold, their break in was just

plain petty crime and had nothing to do with the occult.

On that oddly warm November day, Crane had been standing on the sidewalk,

looking at the now repaired door with Ms. Spinelli. Apparently, some of the

runic writing in the store logo was incorrect and according to Crane it

translated roughly to "for a good time, call." While he was occupied,

Abbie got a number of useful pictures from both front and back.

"Let me get some fabric samples for you to look at," Neil said. "Can I get

you anything else?"

"The coffee is fine, thanks." Abbie sat back as he bustled about his workroom. Neil hadn't been what she expected. She wasn't sure what she'd thought a historical costumer would look like, but this skinny hipster kid wasn't it.

"May I ask a question about your friend?" Neil's voice was muffled as he

called out from the shelves holding bolts of cloth. "The photos were very

interesting. Um, does he wear those clothes while he's working?"

"Yes," she answered, trying not to smile.

"You said he's not a re-enactor. Is he a stage actor?"

"No."

"So tell me," Neil said as he came back to the work table struggling to carry

seven or eight bolts of green fabric. "Does he think he's from the past?"

Abbie shrugged, uncomfortable discussing her partner this way.

"It's okay," Neil said. "This isn't the first time I've come across this, actually. Too bad. He's really attractive. So, do any of these greens come close? What about the fabric weight? Any of them feel right?"

She examined the bolts, lifting each one to catch the light. She tried to

remember how Crane's shirt felt in her hands when she looked at his

repairs.

"This one looks pretty close and the fabric seems right," she said, pushing a bolt toward him.

Neil picked up the tablet and held the photograph next to the fabric

bolt. "Are these repairs?" he asked, pointing to Crane's shoulder and the

lines of stitching. "What happened?"

"He's hard on his clothes."

"Well I think I have enough to begin with. I can get the structure of the breeches from the photographs. But I'll need his measurements to get the fit right."

Measurements. Crap, she thought. Getting a tape measure around Crane's waist would be hard enough. The man would likely die of shock if she tried to measure his inseam.

"That might be difficult," she said. "The clothes are a surprise."

She nearly fell out of her chair when Neil quoted her a price for two shirts and one pair of breeches. Danny Schneider had warned her, but he had also said that the clothes he'd seen by others looked like they were sewn from McCall's patterns. She hoped Crane's coat would hold up or she'd have to take out a mortgage to replace it.

"Okay," she said, pulling out her credit card. Neil took the card and processed the order, returning with her copy of the itemized bill.

"I can start on the shirts right away since they're not fitted, but I'll need the sleeve length. And, of course, the measurements for the breeches."

"I'll do what I can."

For the better part of a week, Abbie looked for an opportunity to get Crane's measurements. Sadly, the only part of the plan she could come up with was to carry a tape measure in her pocket which just didn't get the job done.

Due to her persistant feeling that something was coming, Abbie hadn't slept well in weeks. One morning, she woke early after another restless night and watched the sun come up. She dressed and decided to take Crane a couple of the egg and sausage sandwiches he'd become rather fond of.

When she arrived at the cabin, all was quiet. She looked through the front windows but everything inside the cabin was dark and The door to the bedroom was closed. Obviously, she'd come too early and Crane was still asleep. He deserved any sleep he could get.

Abbie set the bag full of sandwiches on a wooden chest, dropped into one of the rocking chairs and looked around. And that was when she saw the answer to her problem. Crane had pegged up his clothes from a rope hanging from the beams of the covered porch. Damn, if she couldn't measure the man, she could measure the clothes.

Abbie stretched to pull the shirt and breeches down from the line and took the measurements Neil needed. All was still quiet in the house as she rehung the clothes and returned to her seat.

Abbie typed the measurements into her phone and had just sent them in an email to Neil when the door opened and Crane stepped out on the porch. Abbie froze—-all Crane was wearing was some kind of muslin undergarment. And it left precious little to the imagination.

He didn't see her as he strode over to the clothesline. She knew she should look away, but like Neil had said, he really was an extraordinary looking person, with his slim, strong back tapering down into the waistband of the nearly transparent skivvies. No matter what she did, this was going to result in a deeply embarrassed Crane. She needed to act, and fast.

Abbie cleared her throat, and covered her eyes, but not before seeing Crane blush deeply.

"Miss Mills!"

"I'm sorry, Crane. I thought I'd bring you some breakfast. It looked like you weren't up yet, so I sat down to wait."

Flustered, he turned his back and pulled on the breeches. Abbie looked down at his nicely shaped bare feet. When she looked up, he had composed himself.

"You mentioned breakfast?"


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

The weight of sorrow pressed down on him like stones piled on his chest. That was the penalty in the old French system for one who refused to make a plea, and it felt oddly fitting for a man who had so utterly failed his child. It was of no consequence that the choice to care for his son had been taken from him by death. It certainly hadn't mattered to Jeremy in his suffering with no one to protect him.

Crane was too weary and in too much pain to offer more than token resistance when Abbie told him an ambulance had arrived and medical personnel were going to look at his shoulder.

"I hardly think that's necessary, Lieutenant."

"Non-negotiable, Crane. That shard was in deep. There might be internal damage."

Truth be told, his shoulder had begun to hurt like Hades. He hadn't known he had been injured until Henry Parrish told him, but now, he could barely take a breath without feeling pain.

"Do you think you can make it to the ambulance?" Abbie asked, nodding in the direction of flashing lights. At his agreement, she and Parrish walked slowly with him to the gate of the carnival grounds where the ambulance was parked.

"We need some help here," Abbie called out, though the attendants had already spotted the blood on his shirt and had come forward. They bundled Crane over to the open end of the ambulance and onto a gurney.

Abbie explained how the injury had happened, as he struggled out of his coat. One of the attendants brought over a medical kit and withdrew a pair of scissors. Before Crane had a chance to protest, Abbie spoke: "Please don't cut the shirt. It un-ties down the front."

He felt ridiculously grateful to her for that, especially knowing how she felt about the subject of his clothing. He reached up to unfasten the ties, but his grimace must have caught Abbie's attention, and she finished the job. The shirt pushed aside, the medic pressed a dressing against the wound. A curse escaped Crane's lips at the pain.

"Sorry about that," the medic said as he stuck a needle attached to a tube into Crane's arm. "We'll get that shoulder numbed up for you as soon as we get you transported. Right now I'll get you started with some fluids."

Crane would have liked some water, but despite the medic's comment, no drink materialized. In a few moments, they had him strapped onto the gurney, despite his protestations, and the entire apparatus inserted into the ambulance. His hands scrabbled over the sides of the gurney, looking for something to grip.

"Okay if I ride along?" Abbie asked the medics, much to Crane's relief. At their agreement, she asked them to wait for a few minutes.

"All set," she said when she climbed aboard the ambulance and slid onto a bench next to the gurney. One of the medics sat on the other side. He checked the dressing and did a great many small ministrations with various devices: something pressed in Crane's ear, a band around his upper arm, a small clip on his index finger. Fortunately, these did not hurt.

Crane wanted to complain, but fighting against the straps required far too much energy. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

"How are you doing, Crane?"

"I have been better. I have also been buried in a cave, so I suppose it's all relative."

They arrived at the hospital, and Crane was put in a small room, his shirt removed by a young man in a blue shirt and trousers. A soft garment, open at the back, replaced the torn and bloody shirt. He felt so cold, even with a blanket, shivering uncontrollably. The young man raised a hand. "I'll be back in a minute."

When the orderly returned, he placed some sort of blanket over Crane, one that hummed softly and was amazingly warm. The wonders of this modern world, Crane thought. This generation was so proud of their gadgets and technology, their "smart phones" and "innanet." But these were all just so much sparkle and flash.

The truly amazing things, these foolish people took for granted. Steaming hot water, pouring forth at the turn of a handle. Homes that were warm in every corner in the dead of winter. Illumination so brilliant even at midnight, it put the sun to shame. They gave these not a bit of thought, never needing to break a layer of ice on their water basin before they could splash it on their face.

He waited alone, while Abbie was God knew where. He dozed under the blanket of warmth. He opened his eyes when she entered the room with a sheaf of papers.

"We're going to have to get creative with your year of birth," she said. "Let's say 1981. I have no idea how to answer some of these questions. Date of last tetanus booster? Previous hospitalizations?"

A young woman entered and introduced herself as Dr. Nguyen, interrupting Abbie's paperwork discussion.

"Mr. Crane," she said, looking at the chart that the medics had left on the gurney. "Let's take a look at your shoulder."

The "numbing" described by the medic occurred after several rather painful stinging needles. Still, Crane had to admit that once the medicine began to work, it was miraculous. The screaming pain settled into a barely felt whisper.

After a great deal of blessedly painless poking and prodding and a largely incomprehensible commentary by the doctor, Crane was wheeled through brightly lit halls. Abbie explained that they needed to be sure no glass had been left in the wound and that the shard hadn't damaged his lung. Apparently, this was accomplished by a machine that hovered above his shoulder and saw through his skin. Crane was grateful that this, too, was painless. All in all, medicine had made a few advances over the years.

He was returned to the little room. Finally, Dr. Nguyen came in to repair the wound. "That's a very large scar on your chest. How did that happen?"

"In battle. A long time ago."

"Iraq?" she asked. "Afghanistan?"

"Does it matter?"

"You're right. It really doesn't." She patted his arm gently. "I'm probably going to release you later tonight, but I want to keep you here for a few hours to make sure there are no surprises."

"I need to call the precinct, Abbie said when the doctor had left. "Henry didn't want to go home until he was sure you were okay. He went back to the station to wait."

She stepped out of the room, and he was alone. In the quiet, he tried to picture Jeremy, to imagine his son's face, some amalgam of Katrina and himself. But all he could conjure up was a boy in the shadow of the Golem.

"I couldn't persuade him to take the next train," Abbie said as she returned. "He said he'll wait and work on his crossword puzzle. I think he's gotten attached to you."

"He's a good man."

"He recognizes another good man," she said.

Crane snorted at her comment. "He's mistaken in my case."

His shirt lay on the chair. Abbie held it up to inspect the damage, putting her finger through the rent.

"I'm beginning to think it's a lost cause, much like its owner," he said.

"I don't know about that. Another enzyme soak, some mending-I think there's hope for it, yet."


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

"My dear Miss Mills, I hope this communication finds you well. Regretably, I am feeling somewhat fatigued by my injury and would, I fear, be a detriment to our partnership as a result. I beg you forgive my absence. I remain your servant, Ichabod Crane."

Only Crane left voicemails that sounded like formal missives from the Queen of England. He'd left two such voicemails in as many days and Abbie was beginning to worry.

Maybe Crane was truly feeling miserable from his wound, unable to sleep or having stomach issues from his antibiotics. God only knew what havoc they could cause in an 18th century body. Abbie had been torn when Dr. Nguyen handed Crane prescriptions for a pain med and an antibiotic. Should she tell the doctor about Crane's strange history, or keep quiet? She decided that it was highly unlikely that the doctor would have any idea what to do under the circumstances and thus the information would do no good.

The other, more troubling thought was that he was still agonizing over his vision in the office. Was he avoiding her in some strange attempt to protect her, as if he couldn't betray her if they weren't in the same room? With his over-developed sense of responsibility, Crane had been deeply upset by what he'd seen. Abbie had wanted to bring him to her apartment, but he insisted on going back to the cabin. And he wouldn't allow her to stay.

Either possibility was cause for concern. She'd allowed him his day of rest, but a second day was not going to pass without her checking on him. Abbie picked up the package that had arrived that morning containing the clothes Neil Jenkins had sewn for Crane. Enclosed had been a note from Neil saying he'd done his best using the measurements taken from Crane's existing clothes, but if there was any problem, he would be more than happy to tailor them to fit.

As she drove to the cabin, Abbie's thoughts swirled like leaves caught in the wind. Too much had happened in a short period of time, and all of it impossible to believe. She'd known Crane for a matter of weeks and she felt closer to him than to anyone else, her sister and Corbin included. That was the most impossible thing of all.

She pulled up in front of the cabin, and balancing the large box on her hip, slammed the car door. Climbing the stairs to the porch, she peered in the window-all seemed quiet in the cabin.

"Crane!" she called as she knocked on the door. She turned the knob and pushed it open. "I'm coming in!"

The main room looked a little messier than usual. She heard movement in the bedroom, and then Crane appeared in the doorway. His hair was tangled around his face, which seemed pale above his beard. His ankles and feet were bare beneath his breeches. Most alarming, he wore the same torn and bloody shirt he'd left the hospital in, though it was now untied and hung open.

"Lieutenant, did you not receive my message? I informed you I was resting today."

"I got your message," she replied. "Crane, you look awful."

"Assuming you mean 'full of awe', thank you." He pushed the hair back from his face and scowled at her.

She dropped the box on the table and crossed over to him. His eyes looked tired, but didn't appear glassy or fevered. She confirmed this by touching his cheek with the back of her hand. He flinched, but his skin felt cool. At least didn't have an infection.

"Come on," she said, taking his arm. "Let's sit down." She wanted to take a better look at him and didn't want to strain her neck doing it. He offered no resistance as she led him to the sofa. There was a fire burning low in the hearth. She tossed another log on the pile and sat next to him.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Your concern is touching, Miss Mills, but I'm fine. All I need is rest."

"Yes, so you've told me. Okay if I check your bandage?"

She barely waited for his nod. Gently pushing his shirt aside, she saw that there had been a small amount of bleed-through, but it otherwise seemed fine.

Two pharmacy vials sat on the kitchen table. She went over and brought them back to the sofa. "Have you been taking these?" she asked, as she tried to view the pills through the amber plastic.

"The white ones, yes. You were very clear that I needed to follow the instructions on the bottle. The blue ones didn't agree with me and the doctor said I should take them as needed."

"Have you been in pain without the pills? It looks like you haven't been sleeping."

He rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He was quiet so long she thought he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he spoke but didn't open his eyes. "I haven't slept well."

"You're worried about what you saw in that vision."

"Of course, I'm worried!" Crane sat up, eyes blazing at her. "If you had any sense at all, you'd stay far away from me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Why?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Why in the sweet name of heaven are you not afraid?"

"I didn't say I wasn't afraid. Moloch terrifies me. The Horsemen petrify me. The end of days scares me witless." She took his hand. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"Then you are a fool," he said softly. He didn't withdraw his hand, which encouraged her.

"I'm not sure about much anymore, but I'm sure about this-you would never intentionally hurt me. I've never known anyone with a stronger code of honor, and Crane, you just don't have it in you to betray that code. Or me."

"I wish I had your confidence," he said, his eyes downcast.

"I have enough for both of us," she replied. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you."

She rose and retrieved the package from the table. Puzzlement played over his face as she handed it to him.

"Open it!" she ordered.

He removed the lid and lifted the tissue paper. "Miss Mills, what on earth…"

Crane held up one of the shirts, astonishment on his face. She had to admit, Neil had done an amazing job. He removed the other shirt and the pair of breeches.

"They should fit, but if they don't we can have them adjusted."

"Where did you find these?" he asked.

"I had them made. Remember when we talked about the Revolutionary War re-enactors?"

"As I recall, I said it was a misguided but marginally endearing waste of time."

"Yes, you did. Misguided or not, they dress up in authentic clothing. Officer Schneider gave me the name of the best guy he knew. I know they can't replace your own clothes, but it looks like they arrived just in time."

She slipped a finger through the tear in his shirt and wiggled it.

"I don't know how to thank you." He seemed genuinely touched. "This is incredible."

"Try to keep them in one piece," she said. "And yourself with them."

"I will endeavor to do my best," he said with a slight bow of his head. "A gift as fine as this must be cherished."


End file.
